Lost is the Sailor
by samurai frasier crane
Summary: This is another one I'm not totally sure I like, but what the hell, you guys are pretty nice to me regardless of whatever I manage to spew out. Here's our wayward hero washed up somewhere in the Caribbean. I know literally nothing about sailing or the geography of the Caribbean, so sorry if anything in here is glaringly implausible!


The first thing he heard upon waking was a man's voice – grizzled, deep, with the slightest lilt of a Southern accent. "Well," the voice said. "What are you?"

He opened his eyes and almost winced from the sunlight. He was outside somewhere… Still at sea, he could tell, by the way the ground was lurching beneath him. His clothes were soaked and he felt them against his skin like weights.

"What are you?" the man repeated. "A drunk, an idiot, or tryin' to kill yourself?"

"What?" He tried to sit but felt a hand against his chest, pushing him back.

"Don't. I dunno if you're concussed or not. You hit your head when I was pullin' you up."

"When you were—"

"Answer the question, what are you? You've gotta be one of the three to pull the stunt you just did. So what is it – drunk, stupid, or tryin' to kill yourself?"

"What…?" He blinked a few times, and the man's face came into focus. "What… what do you want me to be?"

The man bit his lip thoughtfully. "Drunk," he said. "I don't have patience for idiots, and I'll be mad as hell if I just risked my own neck for some lousy suicide."

"Well…" He let his eyes fall shut, and became suddenly aware of a dull throbbing in his head. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm not a drunk."

"So that leaves two, don't it?"

Sam struggled to make sense of the question; half the words sounded like gibberish to him. What had just happened? He remembered being in the water, and then being afraid. He remembered thrashing around in the waves and wanting to live, without having the time to think that he was probably going to die. No, there hadn't been any thoughts or words, just the feeling of wanting – and he remembered it because it was the first time he'd wanted anything in months.

"I guess I'm stupid."

"Figured," the man said, and Sam heard a note of harshness in his voice. "Tell me something, son, have you ever taken a sailing class in your life?"

He allowed himself a moment to process the words. It was a strange feeling, like returning to himself after some time away. "Yes," he said finally. "Yeah, I took 'em every summer when I was a kid. I'm a great sailor."

"You sure are," the man scowled. "Guess you skipped the part where they tell you what to do when you run your damn boat aground?"

"When I… oh…" He tried to sit up again; the man did not stop him this time, but rather the pain in his head. Jesus, it was coming back. He'd hit a bump and panicked – ridiculously, because he'd run aground before. What the hell had he been thinking? He'd tried to power through the reef, which was stupid enough on its own, and then… It'd been like someone else had taken over his head, some kind of lunatic, and he barely remembered any of it. All he knew was that it ended with him jumping into the water – just about the last thing anyone should do while sailing. And now he was alive?

"You saved me," he said to the man, finally managing to sit up. Although it was warm out, he'd begun to shake almost uncontrollably. The man retrieved a blanket from somewhere and roughly draped it over him, but he kept shaking.

"You're damn lucky," he said. "You don't even know how lucky you are. You should've died. Even when I was fishin' you out, I was sure you'd be dead."

"I should have died," he repeated dumbly. It took him a moment to realize that he had started to cry, and then he gave himself up to the terrible sobs that rocked his body. Under ordinary circumstances this would have embarrassed him – he was sure he hadn't cried like that since he was in diapers, maybe not even then – but in the moment it felt perfectly natural. The person he had been, it seemed, had vanished, and he was not sure where he began anymore.

The man's face contorted with a strange mixture of pity and disgust. "What's your name, son?"

"My name?" This question disarmed him almost as much as the first had, because he'd been trying not to think about it – about anything. He wouldn't think about the way his friends had stared at him, disbelieving, when he burst in that morning and told them he'd sold the bar. He wouldn't think about… No, he was done with thinking. For the past few months at sea, everything had gone so smoothly, and it was easy to be no one. He thought – or maybe just hoped – that he had truly lost himself in the tranquil rituals of life on the boat, but the innocent question proved him wrong. When he answered, it seemed to him an act of surrender: the admission that he had tried, with all the strength he had left, to be nothing, and had failed at that too. "It's... Sam."

"I'm Raymond."

"Okay."

"Where's home, Sam?"

"I… I guess it sunk, huh?"

Raymond laughed softly. "Son, I know a sailor when I see one, and you're not a sailor. Where's home?"

Sam pursed his lips and glanced out towards the horizon, scanning the sea for any remnants of his boat. He found nothing, only white waves lapping against a distant shore.

"Let me guess," Raymond continued. "You're running away from a problem, huh? Well, that's no good."

"I'm not," Sam said stiffly.

"You ought to go home and face it. Won't help things to throw yourself off a boat."

"I didn't… I mean, that wasn't…" He felt himself growing flustered. "I'm not running away from a problem."

Raymond arched an eyebrow but his expression remained soft and unaccusing, merely curious.

"My problem ran away from me," Sam finished, slumping forward and hugging his knees to his chest.

"That so?" Raymond followed the path of Sam's gaze, out to sea. He took a step towards the rail. "How long did you have her?"

"What?" Sam glanced quickly at Raymond, taken aback, and then refocused on the water. "I dunno," he mumbled. "Five years. On and off."

"The boat, Sam."

"Oh!" As comprehension dawned, he flushed. "Sorry, I thought you meant… What month is it?"

Raymond flashed a crooked grin. "Boy, you really are stupid. It's September. _Hurricane_ season."

Sam counted on his fingers. "Four months."

"Been at sea the whole time?"

"Just about."

"Well…" Raymond scratched his beard. "I guess you can't be too stupid then. Maybe you just got some kind of death wish."

"I don't."

"Then what're you doing jumping off boats?"

"I wasn't… It's what you said the first time, I'm stupid. I wasn't thinking."

"If you say so. Anyway, you're lucky – again. You know where you ran aground?"

"No."

"Of course you don't. These are the Virgin Islands. U.S. territory. It won't be hard for you to get home." Raymond only smiled when Sam cast him a baleful look. "Why're you so dead set on leaving home?"

"I told you, I don't have one. I sold everything to buy the damn boat."

"Well, you've got family, don't you? Friends?"

"Maybe I'll stay here," he said, and imagined it – an easy, peaceful island life. Laying out in the sun, baking beneath its impossible heat until only smoke and ash remained, then blowing away on a gust of ocean wind. "Or maybe I'll stay with you."

"Like hell you will," Raymond laughed.

"Where d'you live?"

"Florida," he said. "You're not invited."

"Florida!" Sam repeated. As if from nowhere, Cliff came hurtling into his thoughts and for whatever reason it struck him as funny. God, Cliff was a nut. He'd forgotten how crazy they all were, his friends. He'd been so busy trying to lose himself that he'd even forgotten to miss them. "You find any postmen down that way?" he asked, and let out a wild shriek of laughter. Raymond cocked his head warily.

"Uh, yeah, we've got postmen," he said. "You okay?"

"I'm from Boston."

"Knew I'd get it out of you eventually. A Yankee, huh?"

"Naw, a Red Sock," he grinned.

"Right, right," Raymond said. "Sorry 'bout that. So, Sam – why don't you wanna go back to Boston?"

The smile fell from his face. "I _told_ you, I sold everything I own."

"What is it, money trouble or a girl?"

"It's—how'd you know?"

"Had to be one or the other. So which is it?"

"Girl," Sam mumbled.

"Lucky again," Raymond said. "Better a girl than money. Must've been quite a girl to turn you into such an idiot, though."

"I've always been an idiot."

"Naw, you're smarter than you look. I see it now. You're just lovesick. Well, what'd she do – leave you for a rich guy?"

His shoulders hunched, and his gaze fell to the ground. "No," he said. "She left to write a book."

Raymond let out a low whistle. "Dumped for a book, huh? Never heard that one before."

"Well, she's one in a million." He scowled, twining the fabric of the blanket around his fingers. "I was gonna marry her."

"Huh. Why'd it have to be one or the other?"

"Why else?" he spat, surprised by the bitterness that had infected his voice. "'Cos it's just a lousy excuse."

"Oh."

"She was supposed to come back," Sam continued scathingly. "In six months."

"And how long ago was that?"

"May."

"May?" Raymond repeated incredulously. "It's a little premature to be throwin' yourself off a boat, don't you think?"

"I wasn't—will you shut up?"

Raymond shrugged.

"I just wasn't thinking."

"You said that already."

"Well…" Sam glowered at him. "You don't believe me."

But as he spoke the words, it occurred to him that he didn't exactly buy his own story either – because he _had_ been thinking. The motion of the boat against the reef broke open a floodgate of sorts, an assault of thoughts in rapid-fire procession, leaving him frenzied and disoriented. In the aftermath he could not sort through them all, and had no idea what impulse drove him to jump off the boat. It wasn't _not_ thinking, it was too much thinking – and, he supposed, jumping seemed the only way to make it stop.

"Guess I was giving you the benefit of the doubt," Raymond said.

"The benefit—"

"I mean, I thought you wanted me to not believe you. I guess I thought you were younger than you are."

Sam glanced at him crookedly, unsure how to take this. "What's my age have to do with it?"

"Because," he said. "Young people don't know enough to be afraid of death. And old people don't know anything else. There's no middle ground – you just pass from one to the other."

Sam stared at him.

"Sorry to get _philosophical_ on you," he added wryly. "What I'm saying is, I had you pegged for some kind of hopeless romantic. You know – '_Better to die than live without her_.' Or maybe, '_Won't she be sorry when I'm dead._' But now I think maybe you're smarter than that. It's always better to live."

Without particularly wanting to, almost reflexively, Sam conjured the scenario in his mind – what would have happened if he really had died jumping off the boat. Lost at sea, that was all anyone would ever hear. In that moment he knew Raymond was right – that he was no longer young, and that he had never been a romantic. There was something aesthetically pleasing about a tragic death, the idea that if he had to be lost he might as well be completely lost, but when he thought about _her_, tried to picture her face upon hearing the news, what she would do… It just made him feel sick.

"I wouldn't do that," he mumbled, and fixed Raymond with a look that was almost pleading. Now, more than before, he believed himself and wanted to be believed.

"I know. I see now. I'm sorry for misjudging you." He took a deep breath of ocean air and exhaled slowly, meditatively. "You'll be okay, Sam. I think you should go back to Boston."

"I can't."

"You keep saying that. How're you so sure your girl isn't coming back?"

"Because I know her," he said dully. "And… and because she knows me."

"You don't seem like such a bad person to know."

Sam let out a hoarse laugh. "Thanks."

"I'm sure you don't believe it now," Raymond continued, "but you'll get over her."

Sam said nothing; he considered these words in silence, not even trying to make himself believe them.

"You will. As far as I know, there are two things in this world that can change a man – really change him." Raymond paused, eyeing Sam expectantly.

"Uh…" He took the bait. "What are they?"

"The first is love. The second is time."

"Oh, yeah." He smirked. "Time heals all wounds, right?"

"I didn't tell you it'd heal anything. I wouldn't say that about love, either. I just said it'll change you."

This, Sam could believe, because he'd already seen it. He'd seen time change him, and love too. "But can you change back?" he blurted out.

"Now you're being stupid again."

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. His eyes narrowed as he thought. "But… But that's the thing. I was, uh, I was really happy before...all this."

"Okay."

"I mean, I thought I was happy. I remember being happy. And then…" He made a vague gesture with his hands, as if trying to snatch his muddled thoughts from the air and force them into words. "I guess I was still happy. Sure, I was. I was happier, even. But it's like you said, I think I changed."

"'Course you did."

"And now I don't know…" He heard his voice break, but forced himself to continue. "I mean, I don't remember how to be happy like I was before. I don't… I don't know how to live anymore, without… Uh, without…"

"Don't you start crying again," Raymond interrupted, a mischievous half-grin tugging the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not!" Sam snapped. And then, as if he were a child: "I'm not a crier." Raymond snorted. Sam stared at his feet, flushing a deep crimson, but felt nonetheless grateful for the interruption. He hadn't wanted to finish the sentence. However crazy it was, he sensed that something bad would happen if he said what he meant to say; that in saying it aloud he would make it true and irreversible. But there were always ways to live. He'd had friends in high school who came back from Vietnam with their arms or legs or faces blown off, and they'd figured out how to keep living. What he had lost, he told himself, wasn't even part of him – not really, even if it had seemed that way sometimes.

"I'll take you ashore," Raymond said softly. "I'll lend you some money too – no rush to pay me back, all right? Go to the hospital first, and then someone there can help you figure out how to get home."

"I don't need to go to the hospital. I feel fine."

"Go to the hospital," Raymond repeated. "Get your damn head looked at, make sure you're just stupid and not concussed." He dug a wallet from his pocket and passed Sam a business card and a wad of bills. "That's where you can send me the money when you've got it."

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Crazy as it is, I s'pose I've come to like you," Raymond said, grinning distantly at the water. "Guess we're both stupid."

Sam let out a faint, short laugh. "You need any help with the boat?"

"Not from you, I don't. Just sit back."

Sam obeyed, leaning against the seat as he watched Raymond shuffle off. His eyes turned to the sky, where the sun had begun to set – a brilliant mélange of oranges, purples, reds, blues, almost unreal, unlike anything he'd ever seen in Boston. It looked to him like an ember, something dying, and he might have considered it as a new beginning if only his first thought hadn't been, _She would like this._ He knew she would, that it was the kind of situation only he would be stupid enough to get into and for which she would forgive him when she saw the end result. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine her there, but it didn't work because he already knew she wasn't there and wouldn't ever be there – that the moment and whatever indeterminate length of time followed it was his to traverse alone. He opened his eyes again.

His second thought was that he liked how all days ended with sunsets; this symmetry reassured him, made him believe that he might be okay. Since he had little left to trust, he decided to trust order. He knew the earth would keep spinning on its axis, that all rivers would wind to the sea, and that he would go back to Boston. As they approached the shore he watched the tide draw in, dragging along centuries of debris from the ocean floor, and understood that lost things had no choice but to return home eventually.


End file.
